


Bad Weather 'Til Better Days

by krysiebee



Category: Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Martha makes raising an alien look easy but it couldnt always have been, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 18:26:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14001948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krysiebee/pseuds/krysiebee
Summary: Martha grapples with her son's abilities alongside her own fears of losing him.





	Bad Weather 'Til Better Days

**Author's Note:**

> New day, New fic! 
> 
> This one's been sitting in my computer for a while...I'll admit I'm not completely satisfied with the way it turned out but it's done, and it's been done for a while so I figured I should put it up. 
> 
> Feel free to tell me what you think!
> 
> Happy reading.

More often that not, Martha Kent’s nightmares revolved around Clark.

Tonight, she dreams of him floating in space, his eyes closed, seemingly asleep or dead as he drifts untethered from earth, and no matter how much Martha reaches out to him, Clark lies beyond her reach. A million miles away while she is on a farm in the middle of nowhere screaming herself hoarse. But he never comes back, and she wakes up with that feeling. That sticking loneliness.

Her heartbeat pounds to the rhythm of the headache at the back of her skull and her lips feel dry and cracked. Martha takes a slow, deep breath. Her hand rises to her forehead and she wipes away a droplet of water. Her eyes flicker up, drawn to the dark patch on the cusp of her vision. The crack in the ceiling is leaking again. Another drop falls and this one also hits her forehead, and when she turns her head it slides across her face and disappears into her greying hairline.

Beside her Jonathan continues to slumber on, peacefully unaware of the weather and the crack in the ceiling. But then, he’d always been a heavy sleeper. And even with the breathing strip on, he still snored like a tractor. Martha listens to the uneven growl of her husband’s rest and glances at the clock. Two-twenty in the morning.

The rain tests the shingles of the roof with an incessant, never-ending army of droplets. Thunder sets a low uneven drumbeat to the silence. Through the small, square window on her husband’s side, lightening strikes in the distance.

Martha’s eyelashes flutter as another cold droplet hits her cheek and she sighs, sits up, and watches the fat droplets pelt down like miniature bullets trying to pierce through the window glass. With dismay, Martha remembers that she’d left the window open a crack before bed and she can already make out the growing damp patch on the wallpaper as the rain slipped through the opening and trailed down onto the floor. She knows that she will have to check the floorboards in the morning. If they’re rotted through they’ll need changing. The wallpaper too. Better to close the shutters now than let it get worse.

Martha pulls the blanket off, taking her time to push herself up as the bedsprings whine and dip against her shifting weight. There is little chance of waking Jonathan, but age slows her bones and the air chills them besides, so she is in no hurry to leave the generous warmth of her bed. Pulling on her robe and slippers, she rubs her elbows, willing the blood into her cold, aching joints as she pads around the bed to Jonathan’s side.

On closer inspection, the wet patch crawls down the wall, lifting the wallpaper in an embarrassing dark path that resembles a pee stain. Martha sighs, but moves quickly to slide shut the small gap in the glass. Before closing the blinds, she squints into the darkness. Her eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, and hell if the night makes them better, but the flashes of lightening are just enough for her to see to the barn periodically. Like the space between breaths, Martha can see and then she can’t.

And then she can, and there is a person slogging across the muddy clearing in a baseball cap and backpack. For a hellish minute Martha’s heartrate doubles, her mind settling between Jonathan’s shotgun in the garage, and the space in their bed that had already begun to cool. But the stranger doesn’t head towards her. Instead, he veers towards the barn. Martha is barely aware of her own breathing as he trudges underneath the soft yellow glow of the barn’s outdoor lights. And the sigh of relief comes fast as she immediately recognizes the soaked-through fourteen-year-old boy in the faded Kansas City Royals hoodie and ripped, earth-stained jeans. The old white chipped wood rubs abrasively against the matted wool of her robe as Marth leans against the window frame, arms loosely crossed.

A short breath through her nose as she squints, wondering. What on earth is Clark doing out in the rain so late?

Clark picks up the baseball bat he left lying by the barn earlier that afternoon, slings off his backpack and pulls out a ball. Martha watches, and isn’t sure why she hasn’t already trekked out there herself and hauled him back inside. Whatever Clark’s thinking –going out in the pouring rain, in the middle of the night to play baseball of all things –clearly isn’t what’s best for him. As far as Martha’s concerned it’s just a one-way ticket to getting the flu. And it’s a school night.

But she can’t help but feel curious. Clark’s never snuck out before. Never done anything this, well, _weird_ before. And something in the bunched tightness of his shoulders, gives her pause. Was Clark mad when he came home from school today? Martha thinks back, and concludes that no, he hadn’t been angry. Distracted maybe. A little rushed to go to his room maybe, but she and Jonathan had just put that down to him being a teenager.

But something must have been wrong. Looking at him now, standing alone in the pouring rain, she thinks, _but what?_

Clark makes a test swing with the bat; it slices through the rain precisely and he reels it back, only this time he throws the ball into the air first and --

**Crack!**

Martha’s head jerks up. She watches with disbelieving eyes as the ball disappears into the clouds. Gripping the blinds to aid her shaking legs, she leans forward, searching the sky and then the ground wildly. _Maybe she missed it falling, or maybe Clark missed the ball and she’d just heard thunder or maybe he hit it in time with the thunder and_ –

**Crack!**

The sound reverberates alongside the thunder this time. Louder even.

Clark shields his eyes with his hand and tilts his head up as though he’s following its trajectory, but that’s impossible _,_ she thinks hysterically, because it’s _gone._ It disappeared into the ozone layer.

Martha begins to feel a little faint, and wonders if she’s still dreaming. Cautiously, she pulls up the clasps and opens the window just enough to slip her fingers through the small gap. Cool rain spills over her fingertips, forcefully grounding her in reality as Clark takes out another ball from his backpack and hits it again.

 **Crack**. It’s a low hit. The ball soars through the field, parting wheat like a comb before it slams into the ground somewhere far to the west, kicking up a wave of wet earth. But Martha is no longer looking at it.

Her eyes are on Clark, who takes off his cap and runs his hands through his damp hair, grinning as the rain pelted down and the wind yowled and for a moment she doesn’t see her son at all. His eyes are eerily bright, his back is too straight (how had she never noticed that Clark slouched?) and he just looks…different _._ Glowing. Like a spirit or an apparition –some otherworldly thing that _didn’t belong_ in the middle of nowhere, Kansas.

The moment passes slowly; it melts away as Clark picks up his things, no longer godlike, just a soaking wet teenager, but Martha is still shaken. Her heart in her throat, she lets out a shallow breath and releases the latch on the window, letting it fall shut with a barely audible click.

Clark’s head abruptly jerks in her direction.

Before Martha realizes what she’s doing, she swings around until her back is pressed against the wall next to the window. Her heartbeat gallops in her ears and she wonders if he can hear that too.

 _Nonsense,_ Martha chastises herself as shame worms its way past her fear. _This is your son, your little boy._

 _Your little boy who hits baseballs so high it looks like he’s putting new stars into the sky_. Martha closes her eyes and swallows. _Martha Kent, you are a cowardly woman,_ she tells herself reproachfully, and tries to gather her bearings.  

Most of the time she forgets that Clark is different. It’s so easy to. He fit so perfectly into a hole Martha wasn’t aware existed until he appeared and filled it and it was like he was always there. Always with them. And she can admit, at least to herself, that she likes to pretend he’s always been theirs – that he was never anyone else’s for even a moment. But the fact remained that she wasn’t Clark’s birth mother. Clark fell out of the sky and collided with the earth just like those baseballs he was hitting. She hadn’t been the one to tell him that (she hadn’t wanted to, not yet), but she knew that Clark knew. She had seen Jon walk him into the barn, Jon’s arm around his shoulders and Clark’s face confused and worried, searching the house’s windows until they found her, but she’d pretended to be busy with the dishes.

And when Clark walked out, well they never talked about it.

In her naivety and selfishness, Martha had thought maybe she could hold off that talk.

But this—

No, there would be no more holding off shit.

Martha looks outside and isn’t surprised to see that Clark isn’t there anymore. Straining her ears, she listens for the sound of the front door slamming shut –their house is so small that ordinarily she’d easily be able to hear it from her bedroom – but it doesn’t happen.

What she does hear is the sound of Clark’s bedroom window sliding open and then closed. Martha quietly walks across the small hallway to Clark’s bedroom door and peeks inside. How he managed to change so fast Martha doesn’t know, but small wet droplets are littered across the floor, and a damp looking hoodie is just visible at the bottom of the hamper.

Her son is strewn across the small double bed, half covered in sheets and pillows that seem strategically placed over his wet hair. One of his legs hangs limply off the side of the bed, and he is apparently fast asleep, breathing softly. For a moment, Martha allows the charade to continue, content to simply look at his face. Clark’s eyes squeeze further and relax habitually, as though he cannot decide which is more natural, but then, he never was particularly good at pretending to be asleep.

Martha quietly walks inside and perches herself on the edge on his bed. She rests a hand lightly on his leg and shakes it gently. “I know you’re awake, Clark.”

Clark’s eyes crack open and his head shifts, but he seems to bury himself further into the fort of blankets and pillows around his head. “Not feelin’ well,” he mumbles. “Tired.”

“Honey, I just want to talk. Please.”

From underneath the covers, Clark scans her face cautiously with an expression so guarded, Martha is sure she’s never seen it before. But to her relief, he does sit up.

“Okay.”

His hair is a mess, soaking wet and clinging to his head in odd curly clumps. Martha reaches over and carefully threads her fingers through the knots. Clark fidgets nervously, heat rolling off him in thick waves. Martha wonders how his hair could still be wet near such warmth.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

Clark shrugs. He looks on edge, hunched like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. Martha smiles at him sadly, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. Her thumb caresses his cheek.

“Are you sure?” she asks again, gently.

Clark nods his head. He mumbles something under his breath and Martha tilts her head, leaning in slightly.

“Gonna have to speak louder sweetie.”

“Are you mad at me?”

Martha’s chest tightens, and it feels a little like her heart is breaking. Gently, she rubs his back. Clark’s eyes are riveted on the ground and he’s sitting so tensely it feels a bit like comforting rock.

“No, no I’m not mad at you. Why would I be mad?”

“Because I’m a freak,” Clark says, stunning Martha into momentary silence. She recovers quickly, shaking her head.

"Clark, what on earth would make you think...You are not a freak! Who said that to you?"

"No one," he replies, frustration mounting like a tiding wave through his voice. “But it's true. I _am_ a freak. Why can’t I just be normal?” Clark asks her. “Why do I have to be an -an alien?” 

It’s a rhetorical question. It’s also the first time Clark’s identity is spoken aloud between them. Martha carefully considers him.

“Why would you want to be normal?” She asks, because she isn’t certain she can address the alien part yet. Clark frowns, but Martha smiles softly at him. “Clark, you can hit baseballs into outer space. That’s pretty darn incredible.”

“But you were afraid,” Clark says, furrowing his eyebrows. His eyes are sad but sharp. “I saw you watching me and I heard your heartbeat. What I can do scares you, doesn’t it?”

“Clark.” Martha exhales, because she knows this is her fault – if she’d only talked to him sooner, if only she’d not ignored this. “Okay. Okay, honey look at me.”

Her joints crack and ache dully as she kneels in front of him, but Martha ignores them, tilting up Clark’s chin so that they are face-to-face. Clark stares at her mutely with big, glassy blue eyes. 

“Yes Clark, I was afraid.” Clark’s breath hitches, a look of absolute horror on his face. Martha keeps her hand steady on his cheek. “I was…scared because I thought acknowledging where you came from meant losing you. And seeing your powers tonight was like looking that lie in the eye for what it was – wrong. I was wrong to do that to you and it was selfish of me to deny that part of you.”

Clark makes a small noise of denial, his eyes squeezed shut, and he tries to turn his head away, but Martha cups his cheeks in her palms, caressing the tears away as they fell, even as her own eyes grew wet.

“You are not a freak,” she continues very seriously. “You –Clark – what you are is beautiful and you should be proud of where you come from.” Clark is almost shaking; his lip quivers like a dam on the verge of breaking. Leaning forward, she gently kisses his forehead. “ _I_ am proud of who you are, and I wouldn’t change where you came from for the world. I am so sorry I ever made you think different. I am so sorry.”

Martha wraps her arms around him and rests her chin on his head.

“You’re not gonna lose me, Ma,” Clark murmurs into her shoulder. His tears stain her nightdress but she couldn’t care about it less. “I promise. No matter what, I’ll always be your son.”

Resounding relief floods through her and even as her eyes drift to the darkened sky through the window, Martha allows herself a small inscrutable smile. It’s still raining like hell unleashed but --

“And I’ll always be your mother.”

They’re going to be okay.


End file.
